


Amare et Sapere

by Amasa



Category: Glee
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amasa/pseuds/Amasa





	1. Chapter 1

Primer.

This fic takes place in the world of Bioware's epic dark fantasy video game, Dragon Age. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this game, I'll be providing a primer to the salient points of the world environment as they relate to this fic.

On the continent of Thedas, in the country of Ferelden, the Chantry is the dominant religion. It is based on the worship of Andraste, a young barbarian slave in the Tevinter Imperium who was visited by the Maker, led a victorious army against her oppressors and was betrayed and martyred. She's like Joan of Arc plus Jesus.

Mages are people who are able to manipulate “mana,” or magical energy. They take lyrium potions, a bright blue, specially-prepared concoction of rare and valuable ore mined by the dwarves, to augment their mana. Mages are born with a special connection to the Fade, the ever-changing realm of dreams and spirits. Elves and humans visit the Fade every night when they dream, but mages may walk the Fade while awake and conscious. For reasons no one fully understands, this attracts demons, who seek to possess mages. A possessed mage is known as an abomination and becomes a horrifying and powerful distortion of themselves bent to the demon's will. All mages, no matter how strong, are susceptible.

For this reason, mages are sequestered in Circles of Magi. In Ferelden, the Circle of Magi is a tall, tall tower in the middle of Lake Calenhad, far from any population centers. There, they are guarded by Templars, soldiers of the Chantry who are charged with protecting the population from the dangers of abominations. Templars take lyrium as well as mages, ostensibly to augment their magic-negating and mage-hunting abilities. Lyrium is addictive, and over time, Templars will succumb to their addiction.

Templars also hunt apostates – mages who do not reside in Circles, have run away from Circles, or practice non-Circle magical disciplines – and maleficars. Maleficars are practitioners of forbidden blood magic, a school of magic that involves using blood as fuel for magical spells. It produces proportionally greater results the more blood is spilled and permits a mage to control the minds of others. The Chantry tends to conflate apostates with maleficars, although not all apostates practice blood magic. The general public strongly shares the Chantry's view, their fear and distrust supported by their ignorance and by historical and religious reasoning.

Children with magical abilities are turned over to the Templars of their local Chantry and brought to the Circle Tower for training, forfeiting all titles, properties, and family ties. Blood is taken from them and placed in a vial called a phylactery that enables Templars to track any runaways. Apprentice mages undergo a test called the Harrowing in order to become full enchanters of the Circle, a test whose details are kept secret until the moment it occurs. The apprentices are thrust into the Fade as demon bait. If they successfully ward off the demon, they pass. If not, the Templars set in the Harrowing Chamber kill the abomination.

A mage who is not considered suitable for the Harrowing is made Tranquil, branded with a lyrium rune that forever cuts off their connection to the Fade. Tranquil mages do not have feelings and do not dream, but cannot be possessed and cannot work magic. An apprentice too frightened of the Harrowing may volunteer for the Rite of Tranquility, which is irreversible. It is illegal by Chantry law to make a Harrowed mage Tranquil.

Finally, a word on the social place of elves. Millenia ago elves had a powerful civilization, but when humans arrived, elves died in droves of human diseases and their proximity to humans robbed them of their mortality. They attempted to seal off their kingdom, Arlathan, but the rising Tevinter Imperium attacked with its legions and blood magic, and Arlathan fell. Those who survived spent the next five hundred years of slaves. When Andraste's armies rose, the elf slave Shartan roused his people to join her rebellion, and in thanks, Andraste bequeathed the elves the land of the Dales in southern Orlais.

The elves attempted to recapture their lost civilization, which included worship of the elven pantheon, not the Maker. Therefore, the Chantry declared an Exalted March against the Dales, destroying the elven homeland a second time. Some survivors became proud wanderers known as Dalish elves, but the rest were absorbed into human kingdoms, sequestered in segregated alienages and treated as rabble and trash, their history and culture long forgotten.

Hopefully that's sufficient background. I'll try to establish the rest via narration, but any questions feel free to ask.


	2. Chapter 2

**1.**

" _You're_ new," remarked a high, lively voice, breaking Sam out of his stultifying boredom.

Sam squinted through the visor of his heavy helm. The voice had come from a tall, slender young man marked as an apprentice mage by the style of his russet robes. Blue-green-blue eyes met Sam's directly with neither challenge nor fear, only curiosity.

How the apprentice could tell Sam apart from any other Templar was beyond Sam's ken; Sam could barely tell _himself_ apart from any of his barracks-mates once they were in full kit. What about him came across as so obviously _new_? Sam wondered uneasily.

The young man stood before him, clearly expecting some sort of response. Sam thought fast. Templars were strongly discouraged from chumming around with the mages they protected, as it was harder for them to properly ward their charges if they grew overly attached or exceedingly emotionally involved. Fresh out of training, Sam had great hopes of becoming a field Templar and hunting dangerous illegal mages for the Chantry, but all Templars had to put in time at the Circle Tower before they were even considered for such positions.

So here Sam was, and he had no intention of getting stuck here over one chatty student. He jerked his chin upwards, breaking the mage's gaze, and cleared his throat.

"Right, right. Wouldn't want to obscure the holy purity of your cause, deigning to talk to us. Well done, right by the book," said the young man loftily, arching fine dark brows. He crossed his arms. "And we aren't supposed to talk to you, either, not that that stops us. We _are_ all cooped up here _together_ ,you do realize." He smirked a little. "Your eight-hour shifts standing around in full plate in front of the same old boring door must be _so_ entertaining while you're piously ignoring us. What do you _do_ , though? Recite the Chant in your head? Count the bricks in the wall? I've always wondered."

Sam shifted on his feet uncomfortably, his armor plates scraping against one another.

"You can tell me. We don't bite." The mage stepped forward, waving a hand in front of Sam's visor like a healer tracking the gaze of a concussed patient. "I know someone's in there, Ser Knight. You don't have to hide behind all that steel."

Sam set his jaw and took a deep breath, reaching up to gently push the young man's hand aside. His gauntlet made his own hand seem huge in comparison, silver and monstrous against the mage's naked, slender fingers. But the mage's face lit. "The golem moves!" he exclaimed, putting both hands behind his back demurely as he leaned in not at all demurely.

It was ridiculous for a man in massive armor to recoil from a mage in robes, Sam told himself as the young man's eyes were suddenly brought much closer to his own, remaining stolidly put. Blue-green-blue was about right; the mage's eyes canted upwards, uncommonly bright, a swirl of color like spring leaves and lyrium.

"But does it speak?" the mage continued, quirking an eyebrow delicately. "Here. I'll start this off." Long fingers splayed flat on his own chest, the mage lifted his chin, cleared his throat, and stated, "My name is Kurt. And you are...?"

"...Samuel," Sam said reluctantly, his voice a little hoarse from hours of disuse.

"Ser Samuel speaks at last!" Kurt clapped his other hand over the first, smiling. "Brave Ser Samuel, speaking to a real live mage! Charmed, I'm sure."

Giving his full name had been intended to keep a proper distance between himself and the mage, but from the teasing lilt of the apprentice's dulcet voice, it had done anything but.

"Next time, we'll see if we can get that tin pot off your head. You have lovely eyes. Wonder what the rest of you is like?" Kurt - the mage, Sam corrected himself instantly, the mage - executed a mocking little bow, clear eyes flicking up beneath long lashes for a last inscrutable look before the mage turned and swanned down the corridor, robes whirling with his graceful walk.

Belatedly, Sam returned his gaze to the wall in front of him. Back to counting bricks, he told himself, as though the apprentice's pointed, elegant features didn't linger in his memory, as though he couldn't still sense the diaphanous trails of a great young power poised, disconcertingly, to bloom.


	3. Chapter 3

  


**2.**

"Why did you become a Templar?"

Sam started, blinking and smacking his lips together as a very unique voice yanked him out of his daze. The apprentice from the other day was standing in front of him, a pile of books in his arms as high as his chin – Kurt, Sam's mind helpfully supplied. The lit sconces in the library burnished Kurt's porcelain skin, throwing autumnal light into Kurt's cool blue-green eyes. Sam blinked again, opening his mouth to speak.

What came out as his gaze planted itself on Kurt was, "Do you need help with those?"

Kurt blinked, hefting the books in his arms easily. "I may not have the upper-body strength of you humans, but a few books on the arcane spell trees aren't going to kill me."

"'You humans?'" Sam echoed, wishing he wasn't wearing a helm and gauntlets so he could rub sleep crud out of his eyes. These late shifts, coming at the tail end of his daily lyrium dose's usefulness when most mages had retreated to their beds anyway, did nothing for him.

Kurt raised an eyebrow, turning his head slightly in a way that emphasized the delicate contours of his high cheekbones. Sam got the rather hilarious mental image of Kurt practicing in front of a mirror for hours, calculating the best angle for light and shadow across his face. "Can you not tell?"

"But you're not an elf," Sam said lamely. "You can't be. Haven't got the ears."

"Like you could tell through that great sodding bucket, anyway." Kurt dropped his pile of books on a nearby table with a dusty thud. "My mother was. Dalish, in point of fact." Kurt rolled his shoulders with a grunt.

The heathen Dalish were an entire unit in Templar studies. All that remained of the once-mighty elven nobility, the Dalish had long refused to recognize the authority of Andraste and the Maker, paying homage instead to their own tattered pantheon. Each clan was led by a mage known as a Keeper, a dangerous apostate practicing wild disciplines of forgotten magic. As far as the Chantry was concerned, Dalish Keepers were to be killed on sight.

Sam had never seen a Dalish, though he'd seen drawings, heard wild tales from the field agents. He eyed Kurt uncertainly. "I thought they were covered in tattoos," Sam ventured.

"Not _covered._ " Kurt smoothed his robes beneath him as he sat, then pulled a book towards him, running a hand over the worn cover. Slender fingers traced the embossed title – _On Spirits Arcanum_ – before Kurt glanced up again _._ "She did have the – oh, what do they call it – the _vallaslin_ , the facial markings. All Dalish adults do."

Sam stared at Kurt, trying to imagine the pale perfection of that face through a bramble of tattoos. Kurt stared back, his eyes narrowed slightly as though trying to see through Sam's helm to whatever lay beneath. "So then," Sam began, "why aren't you..."

"Because my father was human," Kurt interrupted shortly. "Half-elven children come out human, Ser Samuel." Sam's own name jarred him, harsh in Kurt's mouth. " _Maman_ died when I was six, and I was found to have magic shortly after. Strong emotions do nothing for an untrained child's self-control, and I... I didn't take well to taunting, never have."

Kurt looked away, his jaw tight, and busied himself with flipping through _On Spirits Arcanum_ for a few moments. Sam got the serious sense that Kurt was leaving much of the story out, though he could fill in the blanks for himself. Elves were the second-class citizens of Thedas, scorned and reviled, left to do menial and demeaning labor or beg, borrow and steal as best they could. Crammed into squalid alienages in the cities, driven out of most small towns, elves today were the scraps left after a once-proud civilization fell not once, but twice.

In distant Tevinter, they were still slaves.

"Let us say simply that the local Chantry did not take well to a heathen apostate's elf-blood child lobbing lightning about, no matter the extenuating circumstances," Kurt finally said. He was staring down at his book, his lips pursed. "So your brave brothers in the Order were alerted, and they dragged me, a child of scarcely eight, away from my Papa kicking and screaming. They tied me up so I wouldn't bother them and took turns casting Cleanse on me the whole way to the Circle so that I could not defend myself or run." Kurt shut _On Spirits Arcanum_ , throwing a curling brown lock out of his eyes with a toss of his head.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, feeling quite obvious and foolish in his pounds of armor. "I didn't know."

Kurt glanced up at that, gaze flickering with surprise, before giving a small nod with a smaller smile. It lit his canted eyes gently. "A sorry, from a Templar? Rare."

He probably wasn't supposed to apologize, Sam reflected. The Templars in Kurt's story had followed protocol for extracting mage children to the letter. But... but it sounded horrible, and the flatness in Kurt's voice had been at such tense odds with his words.

Kurt pulled forth a different book and bent his head over it, dark hair falling forward a little. Now that Sam knew, he could see Kurt's elven heritage all over his face, in his wide bright eyes, his sharp cheekbones and high brow, even down to the slender bones of his hands and wrists, his long fingers.

"Did you really want to know?" Sam blurted out before he could stop himself, his voice sounding muffled and tinny even to himself. Kurt looked up again inquisitively, candlelight brushing warm tones into his dark hair. "About – me being a Templar."

Kurt's brow wrinkled slightly, but he nodded. The earlier still tension dissolved into faint amusement. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

"It's not very interesting."

"I'll judge that, Ser Samuel." Kurt's pink lips quirked up a little, as if to some private joke.

Sam shook his head, feeling sweat drip down the back of his neck. "You can just call me Sam. No one calls me Ser anything."

"I wouldn't want to be disrespectful, Ser Sam."

"Just Sam, Kurt."

"All right." Kurt rested his chin in his palm, curled fingers resting against his cheek, turning his face towards Sam. His abrupt full attention made Sam want to check and make sure there weren't any rust spots on his armor. "Sam."

The way the apprentice said his name - the way he gave a sweet, slow blink as he spoke that single syllable - made Sam's heartbeat stutter. Sam shifted on his feet as he began, "Um, well, I was a foundling..."

He had been orphaned as little more than a babe-in-arms, found squalling and forgotten in the bloody wreckage highwaymen had left of his family by a passing lay sister; not an uncommon story, unfortunately, in the lawless Fereldan hinterland. Sam was distinguished only by his survival.

He'd grown up in the Chantry of a sleepy nearby village, where he'd said his prayers every night, helped with the vegetable garden, and gotten into mischief along with every other foundling and orphan there. Country life was simple and quiet and full of hard, honest work, and life passed slowly, in tune with the gentle rhythm of the seasons. The Revered Mother told the stories of Blessed Andraste, the miserable slavery from which she rose and the corrupt empire over which her holy armies triumphed and the mortal betrayal that caused the Maker to turn His gaze once more from His creation, and Sam listened with his whole heart.

But as Sam grew into the tall strapping vigor of youth, he found himself restless, without direction. The clean simplicity of the Chantry's teachings suited him, but neither the quiet life of a Chantry Affirmed nor the studious existence of a brother cleric appealed to him. It was the Revered Mother herself who suggested that Sam pursue a vocation with the Templar Order, and the idea of seeing the world and protecting the vulnerable in the name of Andraste sounded better than fighting for some lord over earthly squabbles that meant nothing to the Maker.

"I didn't want to stay in the same village for the rest of my life, I guess," Sam finished up with a shrug, meeting Kurt's attentive gaze shyly. "I wanted to live for something more."

"Hmm." Kurt's lips curled, a little sadly, a little sharply. "I understand that."

Kurt glanced up, and Sam followed his gaze, high up on the wall where a window must have been once. It was bricked-up, as were all the windows in the Circle Tower save for those in the Harrowing Chamber. Wordlessly, Kurt looked back at Sam.

Sam got the point.

"Kurt," he said softly. "Magic is -"

"'Meant to serve man, and never to rule over him.' Transfigurations 1:2." Kurt shook his head with a disdainful snort and closed his book, standing up. He was Sam's height, or close to it; his gaze barely flicked up to meet Sam's through the slit of his visor. "I've read the Chant of Light, Sam, I know what it says. It's our fault the Maker turned away. Our hubris, our power. Our fault." Kurt crossed his arms, his fingers clenching in his sleeves. "'And so is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall. Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. You have brought Sin to Heaven and doom upon the world.' Canticle of Threnodies, 8:13."

Chapter and verse. It was the first time in Sam's life that the words of the Chant made his stomach drop like a weighted sack. "I don't hate mages, Kurt."

"Your Chantry does."

" _I_ don't."

Kurt's smile twisted, his eyes flashing. He reached out, pressing his hand to Sam's helm. Sam tensed, his gaze darted aside in an attempt to track the mage's hand. This late, they were alone in the library. If Kurt attempted some magic against him –

"Tell me that again when you're willing to show me your face," Kurt said quietly, "and I can see more than the mere shadow of your eyes." He dropped his hand and turned away, smoothing his hands over his robes unnecessarily. "It will be curfew soon, anyway. Thank you for the talk. Good night to you."

"I can walk you to the dormitory," Sam offered, feeling an urge out of nowhere to try to make amends with Kurt, though he wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. "I'll help you clean up. Kurt, I – I meant no offense."

"Leave the cleaning for the Tranquil to do. They haven't much else to occupy their days with," Kurt said, his careless shrug belying the tension in his voice. "Their punishment for daring to be mages who dreamed, I suppose."

"Kurt—"

"Good night."

  



	4. Chapter 4

**3.**

 

“Puckerman!” Sam screamed as the abomination lurched towards the other Templar, blood streaming down the twisted sinews of its face. Its eyes dimly glowed, its jaw stretching open as electricity began to crackle about its savaged hands. It was yanking magic from the Fade in great ugly tears, finesse sacrificed for power, the Veil that separated the real world from the Fade stretching painfully in Sam's Templar senses under the strain. Sam shut his eyes for an instant, gathering his will before releasing it in a nullifying Cleanse that wiped the magic from the abomination's fingertips. 

 

The creature screamed frustration, its offense shot, and Puckerman slammed its face into his shield with a hoarse bark of triumph. Sam ran forward and raised his sword, plunging it deep into the abomination's back. His muscles shook with effort as the grotesque body jerked beneath the blow, mana draining out of it along with a hot gush of dark, thick blood. Keening, the abomination writhed; Sam knocked its claws aside with the edge of his shield, sloughing skin and muscle off the beast's flailing arm. 

 

By the stairs, Senior Enchanter Sylvester slammed her staff on the ground. A dark entropic cloud exploded into existence and wrapped itself about the abomination, every pulse draining its life force. The enchanter took one look at Sam and flung an infusion of strength and energy his way, and Sam felt his fatigue retreat, his limbs taut and ready. He breathed in deep and yanked his sword free. 

 

A whip of spirit fire lashed out from across the chamber, shearing the abomination's back in half as Sam slashed his dripping sword across the tough fibers of the creature's chest. Blinking sweat out of his eyes Sam saw Hudson bear forward, still faintly glowing with condemning fire. Puckerman beat at the abomination with his shield, pushing it back by main force as its claws raked across his Templar plate. 

 

Sam felt the Veil shudder as the abomination reached into the Fade for more power, but the Senior Enchanter's enhancement spell had boosted his reserves, and Sam leveled another blast of Cleanse. The creature howled, staggering blindly as Puckerman buffeted it back. 

 

For a moment its face was before Sam's, and Sam had a sudden, sickening, vivid memory of the apprentice that had entered the chamber. She was a girl – she had been a girl – a slight young human girl with mousy hair and a mouth set in trembling obstinacy. She'd touched a hand to the lyrium pedestal and they'd waited hours as she faced her test in the Fade, cool silvery blue swirling about her still body as her spirit walked the realm of dreams. 

 

Then that small body rocked back from the pedestal as though hit by a ball of lightning. That petite frame had transformed in seconds, ropy tendrils of flesh engulfing it as the demon poured through. But before that, before that, it had been a brown-eyed girl in apprentice's robes. Sam thought of angled blue-green eyes blinking slow, clear and sharp as lyrium and his stomach roiled – 

 

And Hudson was there, his sword sheathed in pure white fire as he knocked the abomination's head clean off its body. 

 

The body convulsed, once, twice, and was still. The head rolled across the floor of the Harrowing Chamber to Sam's feet. Sweat stung Sam's eyes. 

 

Puckerman removed his helm, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. He looked winded. “Andraste's  _ tits _ , these sodding mages.”

 

Hudson shot Sam a sharp look, his tone deceptively mild as he said, “You froze for a second there. You all right?” 

 

Sam nodded, cursing himself for an incompetent as the senior enchanter stalked forward. Though Hudson was the senior Templar present, Senior Enchanter Sylvester could have been his grandmother. Icy and imposing, she cast equally withering looks at all three of them. “Get out,” she said with little ceremony. “I told Figgins this one should have been Tranquil.” She prodded with a boot at the blood-slick form of the abomination, her lip turning up in a sneer. “I'll finish up here.” 

 

** 

 

Kurt stood at the lyrium pedestal. The blue glow of the liquid ore pooled there lit his eyes with cold fire, made his angled elven features look distant, strange. The contrast with the mousy girl Sam had cut down could not be greater. Kurt was perfectly composed and dignified, and if he was afraid it showed nowhere. 

 

Sam felt his gut clench with unutterable fear as his heart clenched with admiration, with unutterable desire. He held his sword steady. He could not be tempted, he could not be swayed. Not by those eyes, not by those high, proud cheekbones, not by the blush in Kurt's porcelain skin nor by those hands, whose fingertips rested lightly against the very tip of the pedestal – not by his regal carriage nor his elegant long stride. Not by anything. 

 

His hands tightened around his sword hilt. 

 

“Do you hate mages?” Kurt said suddenly, his voice as cool and distant as though he were already far away, lost in the Fade where Sam would never, could never waking walk. He lifted long, thick lashes. Power enough to crumble a city, and its vessel stood with eyes expectant on Sam. What was he expecting, what did he want?

 

Sam stared back without answering, his throat dry. Sam could sense Kurt's magic all around him like a winter wind, like thorns and ivy (Sam wondered how long it had been since Kurt had seen ivy, felt wind); it dissolved like sugared ice on his tongue, it wove and swooped all around him like a flock of doves, it sent all his Templar senses to singing. 

 

The song was one of warning. Sam wondered if Kurt heard a song, too. 

 

He licked his lips. There was a faint glow to Kurt's eyes, lyrium light. “I don't hate you,” Sam whispered, his fingers aching with the grip he kept on his sword. 

 

“Ah,” Kurt barely breathed, and his blue-washed lips curved. He shut his eyes and bowed his head, his long neck a slice of white against his robes and hair. Sam knew why, but – 

 

“I don't want to do this.” His voice was choked. 

 

Kurt's voice was not. “You have to.” 

 

With every step Sam took along the line that led him to Kurt, his heart sank until he might as well have been treading upon it. Sam's sword caught moonlight as he raised it, ready to swing. His helm was full of stale air. 

 

“You have to be ready to kill me,” Kurt said, and his long pale fingers touched the pool of lyrium, sending silvery ripples across the surface. 

 

For the space of a held breath there was silence – then Kurt's slender body erupted just as the apprentice's had, twisted knotted ropes of flesh splitting his robes, the delicate wintry feel of Kurt's magic turned foul and corrupt. 

 

Before the demon could pour fully through, Sam swung. 

 

He jerked awake, his heart hammering, to find that his cheeks were wet with tears. He scrubbed them away in the dark, his breath hitching. 


End file.
